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such a strange fervour in what
he’s done, and paradoxically
enough  also  something
mathematical, as if he even
has  some  understanding  of
axonometry.”
“Axo …?”
“Never mind! You have to
come here and see,” he said,
and gradually she began to
understand.
Out of the blue August had
started  to  draw  like  a
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virtuoso, or so Frans claimed,
and that would of course be
fantastic if it were true. But
the sad thing was that Hanna
was still not happy, and at
first she could not understand
why. Then it dawned on her.
It  was  because  it  had
happened  at  Frans’  house.
The fact was, the boy had
been  living  with  her  and
Lasse  for  years  and
absolutely  nothing  like this
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had  happened.  He  had  sat
there  with  his  puzzles  and
building  blocks  and  not
uttered a word, just having
those unpleasant fits when he
screamed with that piercing
voice and thrashed backwards
and  forwards.  Now,  hey
presto,  a  few  weeks  with
Pappa and he was a genius.
It was too much. Not that
she  was  not  happy  for
August. But still, it hurt, and
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the worst thing was: she was
not as surprised as she should
have been. On the contrary, it
felt as if she had almost seen
it coming; not that the boy
would 
draw 
accurate
reproductions of traffic lights,
but that there was something
more beneath the surface.
She had sensed it in his
eyes,  in  that  look  which,
when he was excited, seemed
to register every little detail
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of his surroundings. She had
sensed it in the way the boy
listened to his teachers, and
the  nervous  way he  leafed
through the maths books she
had bought for him, and most
of all she had sensed it in his
numbers. There was nothing
so strange as those numbers.
Hour  after  hour  he  would
write  down  series  of
incomprehensibly large sums,
and Hanna really did try to
understand them, or at least to
grasp the point of it all. But
however hard she tried she
had not been able to work it
out, and now she supposed
that  she  had  missed
something important. She had
been  too  unhappy  and
wrapped  up  in  herself  to
fathom what was going on in
her son’s mind, wasn’t that
it?
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Don’t know what,” Frans
said in irritation.
“I  don’t  know  if  I  can
come,” she said, and at the
same time she heard a racket
at the front door.
Lasse was coming in with
his old drinking buddy Roger
Winter,  and that  made her
flinch  in  fear,  mutter  an
apology to Frans and for the
thousandth time dwell on the
fact  that  she  was  a  bad
mother.
Balder  stood  on  the
chequered  floor  in  the
bedroom, the telephone in his
hand, and swore. He had had
the  floor  laid  because  it
appealed  to  his  sense  of
mathematical order, with the
squares repeating themselves
endlessly  in  the  wardrobe
mirrors on either side of the
bed. There were days when
he saw the multiplication of
the squares reflected there as
a teeming riddle, something
with a life of its own rising up
out of the schematic in the
same way that thoughts and
dreams arise from neurons or
computer  programs  emerge
from binary codes. But just
then  he  was  lost  in  quite
different thoughts.
“Dear  boy.  What  has
become of your mother?” he
said aloud.
August, who was sitting on
the floor beside him eating a
cheese and gherkin sandwich,
looked up with a concentrated
expression, and Balder was
seized 
by  a 
strange
premonition  that  he  was
about to say something grown
up and wise. But that was
obviously  idiotic.  August
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